This is lame. It's a lame post with the same old excuse. I am once again feeling like there simply isn't time for writing here. There isn't the same set of inspirations. After twelve years, my environments don't seem so new anymore. In fact, it is often with an eye toward America that I find the unusual and perplexing.
I don't want to give up. I am not quite ready to do that and figure if I can somehow keep small threads hanging together, I will eventually return with something bigger and better. For now, most of my better thinking gets directed towards my studies. I am required to have such an abundance of ideas and connections between ideas that trying to write something simple yet interesting here feels challenging.
I am taking another creative writing class this term, a memoir and identity class. I find a lot of my writing resembles the writing I used to do here, only with slightly different subject matter. And I miss it- coming here to ramble on about a personal observation that can be neatly tied up in a few paragraphs, complete with a photo or two, occasionally alluding to a more universal truth. I feel certain that returning Congo might restore my ability to write here, not just write, but write well. Nothing compares to Congo.
But we're still stuck in Lagos. We've had tickets booked, cancelled, rebooked, recancelled. We have no visas yet, after more than a month of waiting. There is timing to stress over as covid test results need to be less then 72 hours before flying. Airports are not open here, but opening there. It's all an exercise in patience and calm. I cannot rage against an invisible virus.
I do think about the adjustment. We've been isolated on campus here for almost 6 months and that means we've settled into some routines. We've gotten to know our apartment well. I will not miss it a bit, I often think as I dream of the sunlight streaming through the jungle. And then, occasionally, I recognize that some things here are just a bit luxurious. And maybe I am not taking proper time to really appreciate them.
Here's a list of the random things around my home that are perplexing, unusual or obnoxiously plush.
The dryer falls under all three categories. It took awhile to figure out. Some of the single teachers have a washer/dryer- as in a combo machine that does both. I am not referring to a stacked model, where one sits on top of the other and each have their own doors and clothes space. No, I mean one machine, one door, one turning cylinder to hold the clothes. And yet somehow, it manages to spit water or hot air through the pipes. We don't have that one, which would also fit all three categories.
We have two separate machines, though I rarely use the dryer- preferring the clothes to hang dry. When we do use the dryer, we need to empty the lint trap as well as the water well. I've never seen such a dryer before, and honestly, hadn't even considered
the science behind it all.
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| Super long drawer |
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| Collects water from the clothes |
The second item on my list is not really unusual, but it is freakishly convenient. Our oversize stove has both gas burners and electric options. It's genius for those who cook indoors. I prefer the gas burners, and when the electric is out, it's the obvious choice. However, for those times when the propane runs out- always in the deep evening while dinner is cooking, the propane never seems to run out in the middle of the day for some reason- it is easy to switch to the electric burner. Overloaded convenience (except of course if you are cooking pizza, in which case, you're completely out of luck.) I have been reminded more than once of the sagas filling the propane tank in Abidjan. There are absolutely zero worries about that here. I do not need to lug my tank to the corner store. I do not need to struggle with a valve that's been turned too tight. No calling the neighborhood kids to find me a tool or help with the refilling.
On the other hand, when I am cooking pizza, which I often am when the gas runs out, there are no options for quick refilling. Like instantaneously quick. I remember moments in Bamako when, if needed, I could throw the empty tank into the back of my car and head out for an immediate exchange. The security guard on duty was always willing to lend a hand bringing it in, or wrestle with a stubborn valve. But I was able to resolve my issue within 15 minutes and get my dinner cooking again.
Here, there are no pretenses to independence. We are small children. We are not allowed to touch the gas. Some colleagues even balked at having gas. "Isn't it dangerous?" they wondered. "What if someone blows us all up?" they queried. And I wondered exactly what kind of people I'd surrounded myself with. My concerns grew deeper when, during the first months of school our generator went out for good and required a major repair. We lost electricity for a solid week. One of the first few days I showed up at school with a mug of hot tea only to have a fellow teacher light up with joy thinking the electricity was back. When I sadly shook my head, she wondered how I had gotten hot water. I had no idea what she was talking about. With my stove, of course. Apparently she didn't know it could be lit with a match. You don't need the electric clicking feature to light the stove. Manual works just fine.
I remembered my Bamako days with no electric clicker. Lighting the stove is no problem but lighting the oven can be trickier. I had perfected the paper roll, not too tight, not too loose, wound just enough to catch the flame and burn slow and long, reaching into the well for a controlled woosh, pop, flame. Inside cooking is a breeze. Charcoal lighting...
that's the real challenge.
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| Gas-electric combo with 6! burners |
I have continued to be amazed at how many of the people here have little knowledge of Africa. Many don't even know the border countries. When I talk about places I have lived, they're not sure if those are even in Africa. I am stunned, disappointed, perplexed. How can you be living somewhere and not take the time to know where you are exactly?
It's the money. The money allows people to barely be here. To flit in and out, collecting their cash inside and spending it outside the country. I believe the influence of money deserves a blog post of it's own, and maybe it will one day. What I think I have learned most from my time on VI is that money really is at the root of evil. This idea feels tangible here, a visible image conjured in the very air. Everywhere I look, things are sharp and clear, surreal, hyperreal, tainted through the filter of money.
Luckily, we have a rainbow in our sink. I see it every morning and night- and several times in between. But the morning is when I really concentrate on it. I am thankful to start each day with a rainbow. It feels innocent, hopeful, positive. Spiritual even.
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Every day starts with magic
(or science, which is sometimes like magic) |
